by Parker Bilal
Hanafi gave Makana a beady look. Then he got to his feet and paced over to the open doors, looking out at his little practice range, his terrace, and the city beyond – a good chunk of which was also his. A lot of people worked their whole lives and died without ever having a view like that, but perhaps from where Hanafi was standing it looked less like heaven and more like a prison.
‘You would be surprised how few people I can trust, Mr Makana.’
There followed a long silence. Makana glanced at Gaber, who appeared to be waiting for his boss to carry on.
‘Adil was just a boy when I found him. I don’t know what it was about him . . .’ The broad face split into something resembling a smile. ‘He made me laugh. Just like that. A little boy. He reminded me so much of myself. He wasn’t afraid of anything. A natural talent. Wild. The word “discipline” was lost on him. My mind told me he would be trouble, but my heart told me otherwise. I have always acted on instinct and I was not wrong in Adil’s case. He has turned out to be the star of our team.’
The way he spoke, it sounded as if Hanafi was talking about a favourite son. Gaber shifted his feet before breaking into the conversation.
‘The Hanafi DreemTeem is one of the most popular commercial football teams in the region, and also one of the most successful. The fan base is not limited to this country. We have sponsors all over the Middle East.’
‘So, losing Adil would damage your image?’
‘Not just our image. Our business depends on investors. Of course,’ Gaber cleared his throat, ‘that’s not the main reason we are concerned about Adil’s welfare.’
‘Of course not,’ said Makana. ‘I take it there has been no indication of kidnapping, no ransom demand?’
‘Nothing of the kind.’
‘No threats?’
‘Not that we know of.’ Gaber was adamant.
‘Will you find my boy for me?’
Makana’s attention was drawn back towards the window where Hanafi stood, his face crumpled as if he was in great pain.
‘We haven’t talked about a fee.’
‘A lot of people would help me for nothing,’ grunted Hanafi, returning to his usual self as he approached the desk. Those malevolent little eyes fixed themselves on Makana as he settled himself down again, reaching into a drawer for a pen and paper. It was a plump, gold-plated fountain pen. The kind you might write big cheques with.
‘I am going to write a number on this piece of paper. For every week that it takes you to find Adil, I shall cut it in half.’ He handed over the paper and Makana looked at the number.
‘People must love working for you.’
‘Motivation is easy to buy, Mr Makana, loyalty is another matter.’
Makana got to his feet. ‘Excuse me, I’m getting poorer by the minute.’
As he seized his hand in a firm grip, Hanafi reached out for Makana’s shoulder and pulled him in towards him. He had surprising strength for a man of his age. Makana found himself unable to ease away. The scent of Hanafi’s hair oil was filling his nostrils; he could see the swollen blood vessels in his eyes, and then, as the grip relented, Makana saw the shadow of something else cross the older man’s face. He struggled to work out what it was.
‘Someone is trying to get to me through the boy,’ Hanafi whispered, staring off into the distance. ‘But the man hasn’t been born yet who can scare Saad Hanafi. I will find them and I will crush them like insects.’ Letting go of Makana’s hand abruptly, he turned back towards the window again.
‘Gaber will give you everything you need.’ He held up a stubby finger. ‘Do right by me, Makana, and your life will change for ever . . . for the better.’
As they walked back across the white marble clouds Gaber handed Makana a large brown envelope.
‘This contains all the necessary details you will need. Addresses, telephone numbers, etcetera. There is also a letter of introduction, signed by me, which gives you access to any level of the company’s operations. It suggests that you have been hired to write a biography of Adil. If anyone gives you any trouble, ask them to call me.’
‘A biography? Who came up with that idea?’
‘I did.’
Just then Makana’s eye was caught by the reflection of light on the ceiling. It drew his attention to the pool in the centre of the terrace. A girl in her twenties, whom he guessed to be one of Hanafi’s daughters, was swimming lengths. She was a good strong swimmer. He watched her climb out of the water on the other side and disappear between the rows of sphinxes. He turned back to find Gaber waiting for him by another lift.
‘Is that one of the daughters or the latest wife?’
‘That is Soraya, Mr Hanafi’s only daughter from his second wife.’ Gaber sighed. ‘Do not allow yourself to become distracted, Makana. Mr Hanafi was not joking when he said that your life could change. If you are successful then it is quite possible we could find you a permanent position in the security department of Hanafi Enterprises. He believes in rewarding people who are dedicated and hard-working. You would never have to worry about money again.’
‘How long have you been with him?’ asked Makana.
‘A very long time,’ said Gaber.
‘He must be a difficult man to work for.’
‘Mr Hanafi has his own particularities but he is a fair man, as I am sure you will discover.’
This lift was smaller than the one they had come up in but the doors opened to reveal a space big enough to park a small car in. He looked at Gaber steadily.
‘That is a very generous offer, of course, but I’m going to need a little money for expenses to start with.’
Without blinking an eye, Gaber reached into his jacket pocket and produced another, smaller envelope. Makana peered inside to find a thick bundle of banknotes.
‘When that is finished, come back to me.’ He held out his hand to shake Makana’s. ‘We are counting on you to resolve this issue as quickly as possible. This matter is weighing heavily on Mr Hanafi’s health. Every day counts.’
The lift whisked Makana down to the ground floor, smoothly and swiftly. He felt something like disappointment when the doors opened and he found himself in a lobby with a security guard in uniform, a tall man with a belly which betrayed his fondness for eating.
‘Tell me,’ Makana said as the guard walked him to the door, ‘how much does an apartment in this place cost?’
The guard eyed him warily. ‘I don’t think you want to know the answer to that, sir.’
‘No.’ Makana nodded. ‘On second thoughts, maybe I don’t.’
As he came out into the street he bumped into someone hurrying along the pavement: a young man wearing spectacles. He pulled up abruptly and stared at Makana intently for a long moment before finally muttering an apology and moving on. People even look at you differently when you come out of a place like that, thought Makana. The street seemed hotter, more noisy and dusty than he remembered. It made everything he had just seen feel all the more unreal, as if he had dreamed the whole episode.
It took him a dozen steps before he remembered that he could now afford a taxi, so he stepped over to the roadside and waved. As he climbed into the rickety car, that moment when Hanafi had grasped his hand and held it tightly came back to him. He knew now what he had seen in the tycoon’s face: fear.
Chapter Three
Despite the sudden improvement in his fortunes, Makana still had a few lingering doubts about working for such an illustrious client. He knew of Hanafi’s reputation and was in no doubt that the great man could be ruthless and dangerous. On the other hand, it didn’t seem that he himself had much choice but to take the case. Besides that, Makana was intrigued by the fact that they should ask him to find Adil Romario. Hanafi’s response to that question had not been satisfactory. Undoubtedly, he had enemies and would not be keen on exposing any sign of vulnerability, but still a man like that had not survived for so long by bowing to his fears. It was also difficult to imagine anyone mad enough to try and make a
n enemy of him, particularly now that he was such a public figure. He had the ear of politicians. It was said that even the Pharaoh himself, as the President was often referred to, consulted him on matters of state. Flattering though it was to think that his reputation as a man of integrity might have spread to such lofty heights, Makana was inclined to believe there was more to it than that. Hanafi was afraid of something, something so big and dark that he couldn’t trust any of his usual contacts inside the police.
Makana stopped off at a place he sometimes used in Ezbekia Square. To all appearances it was simply a tiny booth under the flyover, run by a one-eyed man and his numerous family. It was open twenty-four hours a day and was no wider than a doorway. Someone was always there. On the shelves that extended themselves deep into the bowels of the crumbling building, however, there was everything you could possibly need, from candles to matches and batteries, to light bulbs and hosepipes, electric cables and plungers for blocked drains. There was every manner of tool and implement imaginable. A bottomless emporium with no end to it. The shopkeeper or one of his sons would disappear into the shadows and remain out of sight for several minutes before emerging with the heating element or the set of dental forceps requested by a customer.
Makana wanted nothing so complicated, although he had spent many an hour observing as they extracted more and more bizarre instruments from that tiny crack in the rock. Now he leaned against the high counter and reached for the telephone. The circular dial was fixed with a padlock which Goumri kindly removed. As he did so, Makana spotted a poster of Adil Romario stuck on the grubby wall behind him. He wondered why he had never noticed it before. It was an advertisement for some kind of green-coloured drink. Adil Romario smiled his beaming smile and held up his thumb while a girl in tight jeans sprayed water over him from a hosepipe.
‘People say he will lend his name to anything,’ Goumri muttered, following Makana’s gaze. ‘If I were in his shoes and they wanted to pay me to stand next to that donkey of a President, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.’
Makana spent an hour calling anyone and everyone who might be able to shed some light on the matter of Hanafi’s current situation. Firstly there was Nabil, a contact at Al Ahram newspaper. ‘I want you to dig up what you can about Saad Hanafi and Adil Romario.’
‘You’re moving up in the world.’
‘Keep it to yourself.’
‘Does that mean I get paid this time?’
‘What’s happened to your sense of civic responsibility?’
‘It’s like everything else with today’s inflation – it has shrunk.’
Amir Medani, a human rights lawyer he knew, talked at length of Hanafi’s political connections: ‘He practically has the government in his back pocket. If he needs a law changed for one of his building projects, all he needs to do is make one phone call.’
Others said Hanafi was good at making enemies. If a journalist wrote something bad about him, he could expect to find himself out of work in a matter of days, sometimes hours. A contact in Bank Misr said Hanafi Enterprises was one of the strongest names on the Egyptian Stock Exchange. ‘If you want some shares . . .’ Makana declined the offer.
After that he felt hungry and decided that the sudden improvement in his financial situation, along with the comforting bundle of ready cash tucked into his pocket, ought to be celebrated in style. He had a few debts to settle, but his first priority was to treat himself to a decent meal. It took him ten minutes to walk to Aswani’s restaurant.
As usual, an air of weary desolation hung over the place. A fan turned lazily over the deserted metal tables, and the buzz of white strip lighting competed with the urgent frenzy of flies trying to get into or out of the cooling cabinets where all manner of raw meat rested on steel trays. A small fat man waddled across the floor towards him. Ali Aswani bore a distinct resemblance to an oversized duck, apart from his big Turkish moustache whose bushy handlebars stood out stiffly to left and right like rabbit’s ears. Makana chose a table in a corner at the back, where he could be undisturbed and keep an eye on the door at the same time.
As he went he swept up a well-creased copy of the day’s newspaper. Ignoring the usual front-page stories glorifying the actions of various government ministers, the President’s wife, etcetera, he turned to the sports pages. There he read that the DreemTeem was currently slipping down the league table. A columnist speculated on the reasons behind this; were the rumours of discontent within the team true? And where was their most famous player in this hour of need? After that Makana settled down to read carefully through the folder Gaber had given him. It contained photographs of Adil taken in a studio. They were the kind of official pictures you might see on a club wall. Makana had looked for missing people before, but never one as well known as this. Usually you were given a blurred snapshot, or an out-of-date passport picture, but here he had dozens of promotional shots. There was also a thick stack of newspaper clippings charting Adil Romario’s rise to fame, from skinny teenager to muscular athlete. The early articles praised his skills, calling him a natural genius. Alongside many such articles were sheafs of adverts featuring endorsements by Adil Romario. It made Makana wonder just how much Hanafi Enterprises depended on him.
Soon Aswani began arriving bearing plates of sliced flat bread and tahini dip, along with a salad of fat green girgir leaves. Skewers of kofta were already sizzling on the grill. It was a while since Makana had allowed himself the luxury of coming here. Over the last few months he had simply been unable to afford it; though he knew Aswani was always happy to put it on his tab, Makana was wary of running up debts. Today was different and even Aswani noticed that, holding back as he approached, plates in hand, and cocking his head to scrutinise his customer.
‘Are you working again?’
‘I might even be able to pay you some of what I owe you.’
‘I’ll call the radio and television stations,’ said Aswani with a weary sigh, setting down the dishes. ‘They might be interested in the news.’
‘You know I always settle up when I have money.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the other man, leaning back with his hands on his broad hips and staring up at the ceiling for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. It’s been so long, I can’t remember.’
‘Just fetch your accounts book and we’ll take care of it.’
‘I swear I’ll say the Mahgrib prayer twice today in your honour,’ muttered Aswani as he turned to waddle away. Makana continued reading as he ate. The food here was simple but good. The place didn’t look like much but the cook claimed he never served anything that he wouldn’t be happy to eat himself. His broad girth was his best advertisement. ‘I only eat here to keep up appearances,’ he would say, whenever he was caught with his mouth full, which was often. ‘Who would trust a cook as thin as a stick anyway?’
Makana turned back to the matter of Hanafi. A number of things had struck him as odd about this morning’s meeting. First, there was the question of how they had managed to find him. Makana was under no illusions that his reputation was so good that he had been the obvious choice. Gaber had mentioned that Makana had been recommended. He hadn’t said by whom. Then there was the fear he had seen in Hanafi’s eyes. Did that have more to do with protecting himself than any concern about Adil, no matter how much he professed to care for him? Hanafi had hinted that he could trust no one in his inner circle. This implied that he suspected there was more to Adil’s disappearance than a young man simply wanting to get away from it all. Had Adil become involved with someone, or rather the wife of someone? A business rival, say, or the wife of a diplomat or politician? Then there was the matter of their argument. Hanafi said that Adil had wanted him to take a holiday. Was that significant?
Makana looked up as Aswani returned, dismayed to see that he wasn’t carrying any delicious skewers of kebab, and no sign either of the grubby piece of string threaded through countless strips of paper which he called his accounts book.
‘Do
you mind if I sit for a moment?’ Aswani asked, gesturing at the chair opposite and then sitting down before waiting for an answer. Makana sat back and waited. Ali pushed the little round skullcap back on his head. ‘This is something that has been troubling me.’ His fat fingers twirled the ends of his moustache. He resembled a Turkish general mulling over which strategy to apply on the battlefield. ‘You see the afranji woman who is sitting over there in the corner?’
Almost the only other customer in the place was a European woman who was sitting alone on the far side, virtually invisible against the brown-tiled wall. Thin and bony, in her forties, her appearance suggested someone who was down on her luck. Personal hygiene appeared not to be high on her list of priorities. Her hair was unkempt and her clothes dirty. She was chewing her nails and smoking a cigarette, all at the same time.
‘What about her?’ Makana dipped some bread into the sauce and chewed.
‘Well, you know, it’s a strange thing . . . I’ve seen her before. This is not the first time.’
‘Maybe she likes your cooking. Is she always alone?’
‘Always.’
Makana took another look. The woman appeared to be talking to herself. She stared into the air above her head, muttering, and then began scribbling in a notebook on the table in front of her. As he watched she suddenly began scratching out whatever was written there with furious slashes of her pen, grinding it back and forth across the page.
‘A writer,’ Makana concluded, ‘she’s including your establishment in a guide. You will be inundated with foreign customers in no time.’
‘Ya salam, some detective you are!’ Aswani leaned his elbows on the table. ‘We get all sorts in here. Believe me, I’ve seen some of the craziest ones, but none ever disturbed me like this one does. I swear on my mother’s grave.’ He clutched Makana’s arm. ‘I’m afraid she’s going to do something.’
